You're Not an Excuse, You're a Reason
by binnibeans
Summary: Arthur Kirkland is dying for a big story just to prove he can do it. When the newest and hottest-in more ways than one-movie star, Alfred F. Jones, falls into his lap? He can barely begin to thank his lucky stars.
1. Of Work and Its Difficulties

**A/N:** First proper chapter-fic! Hope you like it! Please note: The rating WILL go up as the story progresses!

* * *

_Chapter 01:__Of Work and Its Difficulties_

* * *

"With all due respect, Sir, I believe I have the ability to cover a larger story."

Arthur sat in his boss's office, discussing the Ice Festival that would be present in the next four months. It was a local thing, as far as he understood it, and his boss—Romulus Vargas, editor of the local paper—wanted him to cover it. It wasn't that Arthur wanted a big story for fame or recognition. It was that he'd paid for a decent education and had the skills to prove his capability. Stuck writing silly current events articles for the locals? Not what he'd had in mind when he received his degree.

Arthur Kirkland was a 23 year old graduate from the school of journalism at the Medway branch of Kent University in England. None of that seemed to matter after he'd come to America. No one seemed to care about the degree he held or that he spoke English better than the lot he was surrounded by. No one cared that he was far superior in intellect. No one cared that he had found himself with almost nothing to his name on this giant hunk of a God-forsaken peninsula.

"It is a large story! Thousands of people come to see the sculptures each year!" he announced. There was a smile on his face. "The sculptures can be so cute, or range to breathtaking works of art as if straight from the Renaissance! Why, my two grandsons are doing a piece this year! Ahh, what little artists…!"

Arthur had always suspected something was a little odd about his boss—apart from the fact that he looked so young yet had two grandsons old enough to run some of the Italian restaurants in the area. He'd rather not venture into that part of his boss's personal life. Granted, he'd rather not venture into his boss's _office_, even, if he could avoid it. Not that it was in any way repulsive, it was actually quite nice. He'd just rather be at his apartment working on a larger article.

He sighed. "Yes, Sir."

But there was a perk to being called to the office for a discussion and accommodating his boss' orders and that was materialized in the form of free meals at his boss' grandsons' restaurants. (This was a very good thing in the way of avoiding the local fire department. Again.) Moments later, Arthur was dismissed and he only somewhat gladly took his leave. When he exited the building, he snitched one of the more county-based papers from the secretary's desk after his eyes caught one of the articles' headlines.

_Movie to be Shot in Downtown Area_

He skimmed the small body of the article as he left the building only to find that it was week-old news that he'd already discussed with his boss. Arthur had insisted that he could write a giant piece on it; he could interview the local businesses and ask what kind of effect having a movie shot _right in front of their store_ (with a few big-name actors) would have on their business. Unfortunately, Mr. Vargas had not seen it in that light at all, not thinking that the event would actually a.) happen or b.) matter that much. If anything, the man would probably have Arthur writing about the next big cook-off or the new, sexy model-like secretary working down the street.

None of this was worth his time. If he could just get a larger assignment…!

He slammed the paper into the nearest rubbish bin and stomped his way down the path. Just beyond the small intersection, he saw a herd of girls gathering around the chocolate shop. Arthur didn't waste time trying to think of what was going on and he wasn't sure he wanted to know when he opened the door to Ristorante Romano as the girls gave off a rather frightening squeal of delight. He shook his head.

Maybe he could get a beer with his food; if he was going to have a headache, he would have damned well earned it on his own.

It was a slightly-pleasing sight to see that the booth he normally took was free. He made a beeline for it, hanging his coat on the small hanger next to the seat. He was rather unsure of what to order—besides something with a high alcohol content—though most of the dishes were either noodles or pizza. Settling himself in his seat, he didn't have long to wait before he was attended to.

"Mr. Kirkland, here again," the waitress commented. She had a nervous tick in her eye whenever she spotted him. He was often in here, thanks to his boss's charity, but the owner of the restaurant wasn't so taken with his grandfather's idea of free meals. It wasn't for the waitress's misfortune of having to listen to her boss, Lovino, that he allowed a smug grin to grace his face, but rather the displeasure he could work out of said boss.

"That I am. I'll just be having an ale and spaghetti with meatballs."

"We have Bud Light and some wines…. Not ale. The pub down the street will have some, though…."

Ugh, Americans. Couldn't Lovino carry something better? He just wasn't in the mood for wine, or shoddy American beer.

"Tea, then, and don't ever suggest I enter that pub; it's an Irish pub."

"Yes, sir. I'll be right back…."

Arthur sighed, staring out of the window.

So much for getting drunk.

* * *

Normally, Alfred would have no qualms whatsoever with the current behavior of these females.

Today was not a normal day.

Not to say that he was having an off-day but it would have been totally awesome to actually look about the quaint area. Besides, the chocolatier he was being served by didn't seem very pleased with the presence of the girls just outside his shop. Rather, he appeared ready to shoot someone. (Likely Alfred.) Kiku, his best friend and assistant, was guarding the door and trying his best to appease the small estrogen-powered mob.

"Will that be all?"

Alfred's eyes went to the chocolates on display in the glass-covered cabinets before him and then to the several boxes that had already been stacked, ready for him to pay for.

"Yep, that's all!" he said after a moment.

"One hundred 19 dollars and 35 cents."

Alfred whipped out his pocket book, handing over a credit card. His eyes swiftly shot for a brief moment to the girls outside waiting for him then back to the short man as he handed his card back.

"Say…. You got a special way outta here? If ya know what I mean." His thumb jerked towards the scene outside.

The chocolatier sighed. "Lili!" he called. Alfred's blue eyes traveled to his right, where he heard a door open. A young girl, probably no older than 12, stepped out. She looked to the chocolatier.

"Yes, Big Brother?"

The 'big brother' jerked his head towards Alfred. (How rude.) "Take him out the back way."

The girl's, Lili's, eyes finally met with Alfred's and a light blush dusted her cheeks. Man, if that was all he got, compared to the near-foaming women outside the shop, he wasn't going to complain. He offered her a wide, toothy grin and a wave.

"Heya!" he greeted.

"H-hello…" she replied, shyly.

Grinning, Alfred turned back to the man behind the counter. "Kiku'll come in and grab these once I'm gone." He turned to Lili. "So, Miss. Where to?"

Lili bowed her head down trying to hide her coloring face, which Alfred found pretty cute. "Th-this way," she said, pointing to the door she'd come from. Quickly she turned and went back. With a smile goodbye to Lili's big brother, Alfred followed and he didn't miss the strangled screams of the horde outside the shop. Poor Kiku….

But he had no time to bother with that! He quickly caught up to Lili, turning the corner with her then up a flight of stairs, down the hall, and finally to a door that led … to a balcony?

"Take the ladder—" She pointed down to a rather unsafe and rust-colored looking object. He assumed it was the ladder. "—And then walk that way." Her arm shifted so she was pointing out where they were looking, the back of the chocolate shop. The ladder would lead him to a small alleyway between two lines of buildings which every so often allowed exit to the main paths and streets. "When you get to the other candy shop, leave the alley and sneak behind the pub. There's a back-door entrance to one of the Italian restaurants and you can enter it easily and slip out."

"Awesome!" Despite Alfred's current objective, he had to admit. This was kind of stealthy, like a James Bond movie, or something; trying to escape the bad guys. Even if they were, more or less, raving women.

He supposed that it was a given when one was the newest, biggest, hottest, awesomest star ever and yes: Awesomest was _so_ a word, no matter _what_ Microsoft Office said.

"Thanks a ton!" he said with a quick salute and he managed to catch a quick grin from Lili as he jumped down the ladder.

The directions weren't that difficult but it was made even less so with his self-composed Super Cool Escape Theme, _dut_ting and _dum_ming along. He had to resist going into the candy store and sneaking around the pub was just a gigantic smell-fest. He had to be grateful, though, that the Italian restaurant was just a few more shops down in the large strip-mall. The sweet aroma grew and hey, maybe he'd actually get something to eat. He was rather hungry, and his only nourishment—his chocolate—was with Kiku. He had his card on him; it wouldn't be much of a bother.

He approached a door that read _Ristorante Romano_. That was Italian, right? The smell of sauce grew exponentially when he opened the door; it had to be it. He walked forward, passing a few customers awaiting their pastas and pizzas at the desk for take-out, and entered the main restaurant. Ahead, he saw the front exit, leading to the rest of the downtown area. Relief spread through him and he picked up his pace with a bright smile.

Then it came crashing down.

While only half-way past a booth, Alfred caught the Feral Femme Fatale passing by, as if sniffing him out. He dove quickly into the unoccupied seat of the booth, cramming himself as far into the corner as he could. He peeked through the booth's seat's design, watching as the women left. So caught up was he that he didn't hear the incessant bouts of, "Excuse me!" until the women were out of sight.

"If you don't mind, go find your own seat and get well out of mine!"

With a quick, "Huh?" Alfred turned around, sitting properly in the seat now. He'd only vaguely recognized that someone else had already taken the table, but now he could get a proper look. He stared at the man scowling before him, arms crossed defiantly. His eyes were a rather striking green and Alfred had to wonder if the man had ever come across a comb in the last three months. Then….

"Bro," he snickered. "You got some wicked-ass eyebrows."

Something in the man's eyes flashed before he opened his mouth to yell something obscene. Alfred could tell that this wouldn't be pretty—certainly amusing, however—but he was spared the gore with the arrival of another rather angry-looking fellow.

"Just how many times are you gonna try and kick me out of business, huh?"

The new man was dressed nicely beneath his apron, a towel over his shoulder. His hair was a deep auburn with the funniest little curl popping up. (Granted he had his own defiant cowlick right where he parted his own hair but that had helped him out on his Way to Fame.) He was probably the owner.

"I can't just keep giving you free meals and there's no way your friend here is gonna apply to that!"

"I have no idea who this bastard is!" the eyebrowed-man explained, pointing at Alfred. Alfred blinked at the finger for a moment before smiling wide at the Italian-sounding man. (Well, it would make sense, right?)

"I dunno him!" he announced. "I was on a mission!"

Words had died half-way through on the other men's tongues.

"Mission?" The man had a way-awesome accent. His eyes rolled to the ceiling and he muttered something about tea.

"Yeah! A mission!" Alfred repeated. "I'm being hunted."

Again the other two remained silent for a moment (he knew it was just because of his presence—it could be intimidating to be around someone so handsome and famous, after all) but the standing man shook his head.

"This is the last free meal, Kirkland!" he said. "But just you! Not Mr. Dust-for-Brains over here!"

"I don't even want him across from me! I don't even know him!"

Alfred's grin was still in place. "I'll have a coke!" he called out, grabbing a menu. He was hungry, now that he remembered. Maybe they had burgers….

"Get out of my seat!"

Oh yeah. He glanced up. "Hey! You're British, right? That's a British accent?" Of all the accents he'd heard, British ones were his favorite.

The man didn't seem quite as amused. "I'm English, and I have an _English_ accent, you ignoramus! What the hell are you doing, taking over my seat?"

"I told you! I'm being hunted!" He skimmed through the menu, his eyes scouring for something a little more American and close-to-home. "I gotta hide!"

"From whom are you hiding, precisely?"

Alfred folded the menu and stuffed it with the rest of the menus at the wall-side of the booth. "Some girls. They're acting really weird today."

Something akin to familiarity snapped through the other man's eyes and he narrowed his gaze at Alfred. It would have been much more wary if not for the giant mass of eyebrow on his face.

"Hey, are these real?" Alfred suddenly asked. He reached forward and poked one of the eyebrows. It was a moment or two before the other could react, swatting Alfred's hand away.

"Would you _please_ practice some form of decorum!" he demanded more than asked. "You can start by leaving this table and sitting elsewhere, leaving me alone!" His arms were crossed again and he was glaring. This time Alfred wasn't distracted by the eyebrows so much as he was the intensity behind the man's glare.

Alfred stared right back, his own stare more inquisitive and interested than upset and defensive.

"You're a pretty grouchy old man, you know that?"

The other sputtered in indignation. "I beg your pardon! You Americans are all the same! Rude, ignorant, _arr_ogant, self-righteous, self_ish_—"

"Your tea and coke, Sirs."

The British man was cut off and he gave a despairing sigh as Alfred thanked the waitress and sipped happily at his beverage. "Thanks! Can I get some pizza? Just pepperoni."

The waitress nodded and was off after placing the tea down. After another sip of his drink, Alfred smiled up at the other man.

"You got a name, or what?"

Now he was pouting. It was kinda cute on him. "I do," he said. "I'm not so sure I wish to let you know."

Alfred set his drink down, folding his fingers on the table. A small show of authority might help some. "I'll tell you mine if you tell me yours." He offered up The Look. The one that always got him everything he wanted. The one where he got just the right sparkle in his eyes, and the gleam of his teeth. The one people thought only Tom Cruise could pull off.

Unfortunately: English people, it appeared, seemed rather immune to The Look. Something twitched in the corner of his eye, and he scoffed.

"You're kidding, right?"

Alfred felt something deflate but something much worse than that appeared reflected in the mirrors in the back of the room.

The women had sniffed him out.

If not for Alfred's immense love of all drinks carbonated, he would have found his soda pooled all over the table as his hand flew to pick up a menu. "Don't tell 'em I'm here!" he hissed quickly before ducking below the laminated paper. "I'll pay for your meal and shoot you a few hundred bucks if you tell them I'm _not here_."

For a moment, Alfred thought that maybe his heart was beating _just that loud_, but the other man's voice finally reached him.

"Just who are you that you're cowering like this from a few _women_?"

Alfred carefully slinked to the edge of the booth and snatched the coat hanging up. There was some more sputtering but Alfred plead with him to hush up as the women entered the restaurant. He threw the coat over his huddled form—thank God for trench coats—and drew his legs up as best he could. It was a shame he couldn't fit under the table like he could when he was a kid….

Eyes clenched shut, Alfred listened as the women stepped in and peered around. He could have sworn that a few stopped right at the booth he was in but the other dude's eyebrows must have scared them off because he heard a moment later, "All clear."

Alfred popped out only to be met with a critical stare. He offered up a meek grin in return.

"I'm Arthur Kirkland."

"Can I call ya Artie?"

"Positively not. Who are you?"

Alfred sat up straight (well, straighter than usual, anyway), fixing Arthur Kirkland's coat back on its hanger.

"I," he began dramatically with a flourish reserved only for the most important of instances. "Am none other than the newest, hottest movie star, Alfred F. Jones."

* * *

-END CH. 1-

* * *

I've got a bunch of other things to be writing right now for charity auctions but please let me know if you enjoyed this! I really like what I've got planned so I hope you'll stick around. :]

Just for fun, I'm basing this on the downtown area of my own hometown of Plymouth, MI, and this is all legit! (Save for names of shops and restaurants.) Downtown Plymouth is really old-fashioned in appearance, and cute, with old shops, homes, an old one-screen cinema, and newer shops and restaurants. Lovino's restaurant 'exists' under a different name, as does 'the chocolatier's' shop. :] ALSO, LEGIT: Parts of _Scream 4_ were shot there, too!


	2. Of Chocolate and Ice Cream

**A/N:** S-SO UH. Hi. It's been a while. I had planned on this being out much sooner but hey. Life happens. I don't have much to say, other than sorry for taking so long, but I'm really pleased that so many people have responded positively to this! I hope the rest of the story appeases, as well. Things between Alfred and Arthur will definitely pick up pretty soon. I don't think it's going to be a very long story, in and of itself, but I can't say for sure.

* * *

_Chapter 02: __Of Chocolate (and) Ice Cream_

* * *

"Come again?"

Arthur stared wide-eyed at the young man before him. Had he just said what he thought he said?

"Alfred F. Jones," he repeated. This time he kept his voice down just a little bit, his eyes flitting out here-and-there.

Surely that was the feeling of his heart stopping, right? Well, maybe not—he was still alive, after all, but something was definitely happening to him. Arthur's thoughts ran miles upon miles per minute. This wasn't happening. He refused to believe that before him, having asked for his help, sat one of the most popular young men in all of North America. The most sought-after actor for almost the last two years.

"You … you mean…?"

"Uh, I do? …I think."

"Alfred F. Jones? As in the actor?"

"The same!" He gave another shiny smile, combing his fingers through his hair after fixing his glasses. "Alfred F. Jones, America's most eligible bachelor, hottest star in the entertainment world, and current cover of this month's _Rolling Stone_!" he announced happily. Arthur did have to admit: The boy certainly did seem to believe everything that spilt out of his own mouth. Arthur thought back a few days; he'd certainly seen Alfred on the cover of things, but he'd made no connection of them to the young man before him. Despite the benefits it would bring to his job to make those connections, it was a trait that he simply … did not seem to possess.

It was of little consequence, that moment: Arthur's brain was working out a plan and thus far, he was enjoying the prospects of his concoction.

Arthur wasn't an idiot, and it was true that he wasn't terribly familiar with writing celebrity-based articles, but he was being presented an opportunity to take a few more steps up the ladder and damn it all if he wasn't going to take it. He would just have to play the game carefully. Judging from what he knew of Alfred (although not much), he was likely to get wary if he suspected that Arthur was using him. That was really putting a negative spin on it, but Arthur couldn't allow himself to be too wrapped up in the smaller, petty details. He had to be slow in his approach, to not scare Alfred away too soon.

"That's nice," he finally said.

Alfred, apparently, had not been expecting a nonchalant answer. "All that build-up and then just a, 'That's nice?'"

Arthur grabbed his tea, looking over the glass's rim as he drank, giving a small shrug. "It's really of no great concern to me."

"Huh." Alfred quickly drank down the rest of his coke, then looked sadly at the empty cup. "Well, that's a first—except from the chocolate seller down the street. But I think the only person he liked was his sister." He paused, grinning. "Usually everyone fawns over me when they find out who I am."

Arthur allowed himself a smirk. "My deepest apologies if I do not immediately _fawn_over you."

"No biggy."

The two fell into a silence. It was neither comfortable nor awkward. It was simply … there. Arthur found himself studying the boy's small quirks—how he moved his hands, any small noise or hum he made, and how he wore his light coat open and just a little higher on the left than on the right.

"Your dress is sloppy and unfit for the public eye."

"What? Three minutes of silence and that's how you break the ice? That's mean!"

Arthur waved the waitress over, requesting more tea (Alfred of course asked for more coke). After she walked off to grab their drinks, Arthur leaned back into his seat, still sitting straight. "Let's discuss this payment you mentioned earlier."

"I mentioned wha'?" He was hunched over his fresh coke, straw in his mouth, and already half-way finished with it.

Arthur felt his lips pull back. There had been few Americans he'd had the honor of meeting who actually practiced patience. Alfred was not one of them. "Yes. When you threw_my coat_over yourself, hiding in the corner you said that you would not only pay for my meal, but also pay me 'a few hundred bucks.'" He paused, enjoying the shocked look on Alfred's face. Clearly the young boy had not remembered. The look dissipated, though, when their food arrived. A pizza before Alfred, and spaghetti before Arthur; Alfred dug in, Arthur let his cool. (He'd learned that the first time he'd ever stepped foot in Romano's, Lovino preferred that the food be served as if it was still in the oven—or in Arthur's case, boiling water.) "Now," he began again. Alfred looked up, pizza and cheese dangling from his lips as if the hot cheese wasn't, in fact, melting the roof of his mouth. Arthur grimaced and the most forefront thought of his mind was composed mostly of half-formed words and sounds of wonder. The least pronounced thought was buried somewhere at the very bottom and he was unable to properly place it, but that was of very little consequence. "I generally assume that 'few' fits with 'three' so I am expecting 300 US dollars."

"Free-undreh?"

"No, three hundred. Listen to me, and don't speak with your mouth full!"

Alfred pouted, chewing his pizza as he grabbed another slice.

"As I was saying. Three hundred dollars is a lot of money and is worth far more than a few moments of charity. I do expect people to see through on their word, but I'm not about to get up and simply take your money after having done next to nothing. That stated, for the duration of your stay I shall escort you around the immediate area." _And get you to spill details you've told no one else._

It was dirty trickery and Arthur knew it. A slight tinge of guilt poked at his conscious but he pushed it away. He could put a more positive spin on the action's motivation and indeed he had! He was actually performing some Samaritan good in helping the newcomer and besides that: It was sinful to have so much money. For Alfred to give away such a large sum of money without giving it a second thought proved it. Arthur would just help … make his wallet a little more modest. Besides, would it really hurt Alfred in any way? He was a movie star, after all—what was 300 dollars?

"That's cool. Not that I think I'll get too lost."

Arthur grinned, finally drawing on some pasta. "You might think that, but I promise. One wrong turn and you'll find yourself in something of a maze."

* * *

Arthur's assumption, it turned out, was correct. Alfred really _didn't_think much of money. He'd followed through on his word, paying for Arthur's meal (as well as a good portion of those he'd been given for free), and he even left the waitress a rather decent tip. (Tips were things that had taken some getting used to when he arrived in America.)

Now it was that Arthur was hurriedly getting ready to show Alfred around the small downtown area. He'd insisted that he rush back to his flat to freshen up so Alfred had followed and was sitting in the small parlor area, probably eating the pizza he'd failed to finish at the restaurant. How he managed to eat more than even 3 slices was beyond Arthur, but he simply settled with the idea that Americans had particularly large stomachs.

Arthur quickly threw on a new shirt and a more comfortable pair of trousers after washing his face and brushing his teeth, then walked out while carefully messing his hair in what he hoped would come across as natural, yet still attractive. (Not to make others think he tried to seduce anyone who looked at him. Such was far from the case. He just preferred to appear appealing, even if no interaction was to be had. …Yes, that was it.)

"Alfred, are you ready—Alfred?"

Walking into the parlor, he was a little shocked to not find Alfred sitting on his sofa, as he'd instructed. "I'm in the kitchen," he called.

Arthur rolled his eyes. "I explicitly recall instructing you to sit in the parlor," he began, wandering into the kitchen. He stopped next to the open fridge door. "What I do _not_explicitly recall—" He leaned against the wall and shut the door with a quick, easy swipe of his arm. "Is giving you the allowance to wander about my flat, or to make yourself at home enough to scavenge through my icebox." He shot Alfred a lazy glare down the length of his nose. At least Alfred had the decency to look … a little bit ashamed. (Keyword being, 'little.')

"I was hungry…?" he tried.

"You can finish the rest of your pizza."

"I already did…."

"What? An entire pizza, gone?"

Alfred nodded, the shame quickly leaving him as he looked around the kitchen counter. His eyes found the plate of scones that Arthur had prepared earlier that day to cool before going to see his boss. Something shone in Alfred's eyes when he looked to Arthur and Arthur found something within him seizing up. What it was he didn't know, but the look Alfred shot him was so sorrowful, sad, and … absolutely pathetic. Arthur hadn't realized that he'd stopped breathing until he found himself giving in.

"You may have a scone," he answered slowly with a nod. The morose expression in Alfred's eyes vanished, replaced with a smile, and he happily slid over to the plate. He didn't seem to notice the charred edges and this made Arthur himself smile. Not many people liked his cooking—he couldn't, for the life of him, figure out why—so when someone voluntarily ate his food, excitement overcame him. "They're chocolate scones; the recipe was my grandmother's—I can give it to you, if you'd like it for yourself." His eyes were fixed on the floor, too shy to look up; too nervous to find out how else he'd react to someone enjoying his food!

"These are—geez! What do you use as ingredients?"

Unable to see, Arthur flushed with excitement. "W-well, they're scones! As I said, they're chocolate. I used a particular kind of chocolate for this recipe, however—"

"I can't even taste the chocolate!"

Well, that was odd. He could have sworn he'd put in more chocolate than the recipe called for. (Chocolate was good for you, after all.) Alfred should have been more than able to taste the chocolate. He shot his head up, eyes questioning. "That can't be right. Are you sure your tongue isn't covered in pizza grease?"

Alfred looked to have a pained expression on his face, yet the plate the scones sat on was held firmly before him. "It'd be impossible!" he exclaimed, putting another one in his mouth. "Deezh ah nafty, Ahfuh!" He finally managed to swallow. "What did you do to them? I have had scones before and these are not scones!"

"What…?"

"Deezh ah a krum againft uma'i'ee!"

"I notice that despite your apparent protestations, you're still shoving them haphazardly into the gaping hole you deem fit to call a mouth! I told you earlier to not speak with your mouth full!"

Once again Alfred swallowed what he had in his mouth, this time adding on to the dramatics and gasping for breath. Pah. Actors. "I'm hungry!" he insisted. "Of course I'll eat them! But they're just bad. Dude, don't tell me you cook for yourself."

Arthur closed his eyes, counting to ten. He had made a deal. He couldn't just step back from it. "As a matter of fact, I do."

Apparently his answer had been astounding to Alfred. Blue eyes widened, almost horrifically. "What? No way! You're still alive?"

"I would appreciate it if you would stop insulting me and my less-than-amazing culinary skills!" Arthur stamped his foot, fists clenched at either side of his body. His eyes shot a rather mean glance to the other man and he tore the plate away and set it down next to the sink with a particular _clank_. "If you eat them, it will be without complaint."

Alfred settled a small pout on his face and crossed his arms. "Well fine! I didn't want anymore, anyway!"

Arthur rolled his eyes, covering the remaining baked goods with cellophane. Was this entire little episode really worth three hundred dollars? "If you're going to act like a child while in my company, I will not step out of that door with you and help you."

Alfred shrugged. He _shrugged_. "That's fine. It can't be that hard to figure out, right?"

"You didn't deny acting like a child!"

It appeared that Arthur's words went unheard as Alfred's eyes found something else of intrigue in Arthur's kitchen. He had to wonder, because there was nothing of extreme fascination anywhere in his flat. (To himself, anyway. The only things of true, unadulterated interest were when his fae friends decided to drop by.)

"What is _that_?" Alfred asked, shifting easily past Arthur. Arthur followed his movements until Alfred stopped in front of his electric tea kettle. "This is so cool lookin'! All sleek, and shiny!"

Arthur grinned. He knew he wasn't the most fashionable of the people he knew, but he didn't necessarily doubt his aesthetic prowess. Not that he'd actually paid too much attention to style when choosing his kettle; apparently he'd just gotten lucky. "It's my tea kettle."

Still Alfred looked, but his excitement dwindled down. Was that a bad thing…? (Or maybe it was a good thing.) "Oh," he said. "Lame. You actually like tea?"

"Yes, I'm sure you'll be _thrilled_to know, I do—oh!" He could practically feel his vocal chords morphing so they could escape danger if he were to yell. "We're going! Come on!" He grabbed Alfred's sleeve, dragging him away.

This was going to be a long afternoon.

* * *

The tour of the downtown area hadn't been, despite the setting, a walk in the park.

Arthur made sure that they didn't wander too far from the park area. Despite having passed through earlier, Alfred could now pay proper attention to the surroundings. After affixing a baseball cap on his head, the young man told Arthur about going to the chocolatier and his journey thereafter. He insisted that the downtown area wasn't difficult at all to navigate. Arthur insisted otherwise, that Alfred had directions and really: The restaurant was, in reality, only several shops down the street. His words weren't heard very well, as he went on about the Zwinglis (the chocolatier and his sister) and their supposed connections. Arthur thought the information interesting, but Alfred had found something else that interested him. The fountain. Unfortunately, due to cooler weather, the water had been shut off and it seemed to upset Alfred enough to put a genuinely sad look in his eyes.

Something tugged at Arthur's heart strings.

Ice cream it became. ("But that's probably closed, toooo!" "It's not closed for another week, now come on!")

After a decent three minutes, Arthur finally succeeded in convincing Alfred that the ice cream parlor was still open, and marched him along. It would be counted among Arthur's blessings (which to him was a rather small list) that Alfred's attention was caught enough by the theater along the way, helping Arthur propel him forward. After promising to take him to a movie (Not that this would happen. Ever.), he was, by then, forcefully pushing him along.

"What kinda ice cream are you getting?" Alfred asked excitedly. They stood at the outside window, looking up at their choices. "I'm gonna get four scoops of rocky road!"

"Just a frozen drink."

This appeared to offend Alfred. "What? No! You're getting ice cream at an ice cream shop!"

"I will purchase whatever I bloody well like, and if it's a frozen drink, so be it!"

"You have a long list of humanitarian crimes, don't you? First you can't cook a simple biscuit thingy—"

"They are scones, thank you _very_much!"

"And you won't get ice cream at a ice cream parlor? _Despicable_."

"'An'! 'An' ice cream parlor!"

"You are not ordering for yourself. Step aside, British man!"

Arthur was only a little confused by this, unable to stop Alfred's hands from gripping either of Arthur's arms, lifting him five inches from the ground, and setting him a step away from the ordering window. He had rather strong hands, he'd noticed. Arthur wasn't necessarily light; he was certainly lean but he wasn't a feather. Arthur felt his heart skip a beat, but he wrote it off as his pasta having had too much garlic in the sauce. Meanwhile, Alfred babbled on to the cashier, sunglasses suddenly replacing the glasses he'd been wearing (Where had those come from?), about how awesome he wanted his four-scoop rocky road ice cream cone to look, and that 'the British dude' wanted two scoops of chocolate, minus the awesome. Finally he returned to himself and he simply glared, arms crossed, at the young actor as he paid and took their ice cream cones.

"Here ya go!" he said happily.

He stared, still glaring, at the ice cream being offered to him. "And if I said I didn't like chocolate ice cream?" he asked, not bothering to look away.

"Then you'd be lying, because I know you mentioned how you used chocolate in that charcoal you baked."

"It wasn't charcoal!" Arthur snapped. He shot his hand out to take the ice cream and he stomped off. Where to he was unsure of, but Alfred followed happily along as he ate his treat, the sunglasses put away and his regular spectacles in place. They went on in relative silence, and Arthur began thinking about his article. There wasn't much he'd yet deciphered, beyond the fact that Alfred was nothing but the embodiment of a hyped up nine-year old child on muscle-building steroids. He liked 'cool', 'awesome' things, had the stomach of a giant, and was easily amused. It was nothing phenomenal. His hopes began to crumble with that little bit of realization, then came crashing down with the realization that if he were to write some giant article about him, he needed to watch his movies, of which he'd seen a grand total of zero. Suddenly, the entirety of his company with Alfred was deemed a waste. Not that he'd had marvelous plans for the day. He probably would have ended up researching the ice festival. He took a small, awkward bite of his ice cream and rolled his eyes as he felt his phone vibrate, then begin ringing his work tone. He handed his ice cream to Alfred without thought, grabbing and opening his phone.

"Arthur Kirkland," he answered.

_"Arthur, it's me,"_ said an amused voice. His boss. _"Not this Friday or the next, but the Friday after that. Are you free?"_

"Three weeks from now? Sir, I have nothing to do most of the time."

_"Wonderful! I need you to do a small, little piece on the football game at the high school!"_

"Football? Sir, it's autumn! Football is—"

_"Grazieee!"_

"No, Sir, please, don't hang up—!"

Arthur heard only the dial tone. He wondered if maybe he could get away with murdering his boss one day on the grounds of being driven to insanity. He could do that in America, right? He was really more or less unsure of the little details on that particular kind of case, but he was sure there was a loophole somewhere. If his boss kept this sporadic kind of scheduling up, he really would lose his mind.

He snapped his phone shut and went to grab his ice cream back from Alfred with a scowl. The scowl didn't seem to last long, though. There was a look in Alfred's eyes that Arthur never saw much in anyone else's.

It would be the third time that day to see Alfred saddened, but this was a look of true, deep, incomprehensible sorrow.

"Alfred, what's wrong?" he asked tentatively. The poor lad looked as though he'd just lost his entire family. Just a blink of his eyes later, he realized that he hadn't needed to ask and that his concern dwindled exponentially. Alfred's scoops of ice cream had fallen, splattered to the ground with the Reese's and marshmallows almost horrifically symbolizing something of its bloody, chocolatey massacre. He looked back up, seeing his own still intact. Arthur realized that his shoving his ice cream into Alfred had probably startled the other enough to topple his frozen treat over. A shocking wave of guilt swept through him, and Arthur winced. Arthur didn't necessarily feel guilt if something happened; he was really more of the, 'Well it must have been that way for a reason,' but that kind of logic just wasn't coming through for this incident. What reason could there have been for the murder of Alfred's ice cream?

"You can finish mine, if you'd like," he offered. "I have ice cream at home, after all."

Alfred fixed Arthur with shimmering eyes. "You—you mean it?"

"Of course I mean it! I wouldn't have offered if I didn't! (Really, who would do such a thing?)"

It seemed that the other man's birthday had come early, as he guiltlessly began eating away at Arthur's ice cream. Arthur expected to feel a little taken aback by Alfred's actions, but he wasn't. He was just glad to see that look off of Alfred's face. A person as young-at-heart—and possibly as naïve—as Alfred didn't deserve that kind of sadness. (Besides, Alfred would have enough to deal with that would bring him sorrow as a celebrity.)

"So is there anything else you planned on showing me?"

The two resumed their walk and Arthur looked about him. A dry cleaner, the library—that was a big no-no—the Town Hall, the local middle school…. "There's a rather small war memorial of the area's fallen soldiers."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yes—what on Earth! Are you four years old?"

Alfred had ice cream all over his mouth and there was no way Arthur could ignore it.

"Nah, I'm nineteen!"

"I refuse to believe that…." Arthur reached into one of his pockets and pulled out a handkerchief. "No one above the age of at least 12 makes such a mess of their ice cream." Without thought, he went to dab up the ice cream and he did it in Quite a Proficient Manner. He supposed that to most people it might seem like an English thing, to be mannerly and efficient with cleaning up in such a manner. To Arthur … it was just the proper thing to do.

Of course, the true gravity of what he was doing didn't strike him until he'd folded the dirtied part of the cloth away. He eyes shot to Alfred, and Alfred stared back, blinking, with a bit of pink coloring his ears. Quickly, Arthur turned away.

"W-well? Did you want to see the memorial or not!"

"Yeah! Oh, wait, hold on…."

"What is it?"

Alfred fixed the cone to his left hand while his right grabbed for something in his jeans' pocket. His phone. Surprisingly, to Arthur, anyway, it didn't look to be one of those high-tech, fancy touch-screen iPhones, or Smart Phones, or whatever-they-were-phones. It did slide, though.

"'Lo? …Hahaha, nah, I'm still in the downtown area—I GOT ICE CREAM! It's so good, man!" he exclaimed excitedly. Arthur bit down a grin. It was sweet that someone could really still be so spirited over something like ice cream. "Yeah," Alfred continued. "Yeah, I can do that. Oh, I dunno about _that_. …Uh-huh."

For the next few moments, Alfred's end of the conversation was a long line of, 'Uh-huh's. Answers to questions Arthur wished he could be asking, or at least knew what they were. This concern was overrun by the fact that Alfred's tone had lost its excited touch, and he took on a more worried sound.

"Oh…. Ugh, okay, yeah…. Sorry. …The chocolate shop. Main Street. Kay. Bye."

Alfred pouted, hanging up his phone, shoving it to the deepest depths of his pocket, and taking a large bite of the ice cream. Arthur almost wanted to mention what happened when people ate cold things too fast, but he was sure Alfred would be reminded on his own soon enough.

"What happened?" he asked.

Alfred shrugged. "Nothin' huge, but we gotta turn around," he said, doing just that. Arthur followed in turn, jogging a step or two to catch up. "It's nothing. Just … I got caught being separated from Kiku so now I'm in trouble."

"Trouble? For walking around?"

"Well…. I wasn't supposed to be gone this long, let alone separate myself from Kiku."

Arthur nodded. "I see."

"Don't worry though." Alfred took another bite of ice cream. Maybe he was foolish enough to not suffer brain freeze like the rest of the human race. "I won't let you get in trouble."

"I wasn't afraid of getting in trouble." The idea had truly not crossed his mind. "I've done nothing wrong; in fact, I feel I should be getting a bonus for my selfless charity."

"You're pushin' the buttons."

"I should hardly think so!" Then he remembered his entire point to said charity, and the reason was not at all selfless. Quickly he tried changing the subject. "So where are you headed?" he prompted. It was a better time than never just to pry a little bit.

"Just some local hotel. I gotta meet Kiku at the chocolate shop."

"For how long are you at the hotel?"

"I dunno, actually! Good question! Why?"

Arthur startled. He couldn't answer with, _So I can use you to boost me to the top_, could he? "Er … well…! What if I enjoyed our time together and wanted to mock about with you some more?" Somewhere—everywhere—on his face felt a little warmer. Shyly, he looked at Alfred, but Alfred didn't … seem quite as enthused as he'd expected. He wondered for a moment; Alfred seemed the type to get excited over such a simple prospect, but he didn't … seem to be reacting the right way. Arthur's wondering soon came to an end.

"Uh … 'mocking about'…?" he asked. "What's 'mocking about'?" Alfred stopped in front of the chocolatier's shop. Zwingli, Arthur noticed, seemed to recognize Alfred through the glass windows of the shop, as Alfred stood there, still focused on getting an answer to his question.

Oh yeah. Americans couldn't speak proper English. "Erm, you know. Going out and having fun with your friends. Hanging … out?"

Arthur could almost see the light bulb flash on in Alfred's head, and his eyes lit up. "Oh, hang out! Yeah, that's awesome! Don't worry, I know I'll be here for at least a few days. If it's okay, I'll see you tomorrow!" Alfred's attention was stolen away by the rather nice-looking Lincoln that pulled up next to the shop.

"I'm free after eleven."

"Cool! Meet me by the fountain, then!"

Arthur's breath hitched and he nodded. "Of course. Farewell," he said, as Alfred opened a door to the vehicle and got in. Alfred shot him his widest grin yet, waving and saying a quick, "See ya!" before shutting the door and driving off.

The car drove off and without thinking, Arthur walked his way back to his flat. The day had been a small whirlwind between work and Alfred F. Jones, and thinking of how he could tie the two together.

The rest of his day had compared rather boringly as he ate his (poorly made) supper and whenever thoughts of Alfred popped into his mind—in a way more personal than for work—he did his best to shove them away. Of course, he _had_been the one to suggest that they 'hang out', but that was purely for work-related reasons! He fell asleep trying to assert that in his head, thinking of ways to get answers out of Alfred, and what he could use as article-fodder.

The next morning, the newspaper sitting on the rack in the lobby had a rather explicit idea for him waiting on the front page, in big, bold letters. One that he had not thought of. One that he knew he wanted to be no part of.

_**Alfred F. Jones Meets Someone Mysterious, Local, and … British?**_

* * *

-END CH. 02-

* * *

I've been meaning to take pictures of the DTP area so it's not as complicated to follow…. But I promise. For as easy as DTP looks to navigate, you can get very lost, very easily. (Just a cute side-fact: DTP has a street called Fleet Street. It's pretty out-of-the-way, but there's a barber shop on that street. H-hehehheheh.) Anywho. Yeah.

Also, just a really random fact, I've learned that in Texas, ice cream shops don't. Close for the winter. Not that this is a bad thing! It's just … they close in Michigan. It is a very sad time. :( (BUT SPRING IS ON ITS WAY SO HOPEFULLY IT WILL OPEN SOON.)

Thank you all _very_ much for reading, and please look forward to the next chapter! I'll try to have it for you soon. I've got a couple things to work on writing for **help_japan** and for the **usxuk** lj community's fanworkathon! I can't wait! (Oh, there are not enough days in the month….)


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